Two Windows at Christmas
by SuperSecretSummer
Summary: A peek at Christmas on two different paths. One-shot. E/C and R/C. My gift to Mypdo on tumblr for PotO secret Santa 2019


Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by...wait...signed by…

Wrong story.

The Opera Ghost really existed. He was not, as was long thought…

No. Still wrong. Close, but a smidge too early.

There was a husband and wife and they were both poor and she cut her hair and he sold a watch and no...that's not it either.

To actually begin I suppose I should say we have two windows to look through. Two windows, two paths, two separate what ifs. In both there is a man, in both there is his wife, and perhaps some of those other beginnings could begin us after all.

o...oOo...o

The Phantom was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. Three weeks after the ill-fated performance of Faust, with its torture chambers and glass forests and little figurines with big consequences, Raoul and Christine returned to the house by the lake and buried the so-called Phantom of the Opera. The Daroga led them there, and back, and they had heard nothing from him since. The Phantom was dead as a doornail.

That had been long ago, nearly a year had passed. Raoul still sometimes woke calling Christine's name and gasping like a man almost drowned, but a soft touch and a soothing word from his wife went much farther these days then at the beginning. Christine still sometimes got a distant look in her eye, as if she was listening to something far away, but Raoul understood and did not let it worry him.

"It's not much," Christine said as she held out a package to Raoul, "but I thought you might like it."

Outside the windows of their small cabin, the world was cold. White. Swedish winters were much harsher than French, but inside the cabin was all warmth and light. Holly and evergreen lined the mantles, a fire crackled in the hearth, and candles flickered merrily on the boughs of the Christmas tree.

Raoul smiled at his wife, done up in a dress of dark green with the candlelight in her golden hair, and took the gift from her. The paper fell away in a trice, and he admired the worn book in his hand.

"Christine is this…" Raoul trailed off as he thumbed through the pages.

"My father's book of stories, the one he read to us all those years ago."

"This is...perfect. Christine, are you sure? I know how much it means to you."

"It means a great deal, but it's yours. He would have wanted it that way." Christine flashed him a teasing grin. "And since we'll be sharing the same quarters for the foreseeable future, perhaps you'll read it to me now and again."

"Minx." Raoul let out a laugh and pulled a small flat box from behind his back. "This is for you."

Christine took the box and opened it in a riot of fluttering paper. She gasped softly as she opened the box and ran her fingers over a choker and diamonds and pearls.

"Raoul," she breathed, "where did you get this?"

"It belonged to my mother."

Christine looked up sharply, and Raoul took her hands, kissing each in turn.

"I've been in contact with my sisters," he said, holding her gaze. "They want to meet you."

"They do?" A hesitant joy spread across Christine's chest.

"They do. I told them the whole story, our story. They tell me they've been working with the lawyers and the police...they no longer suspect me of Philippe's death. We could go home, Christine."

She pulled her hands from his.

"Aren't we already home?" She gestured to the room. "Isn't that what we've built here?"

"Yes. Yes, of course, Christine. For me, home is wherever you are. If you want to stay here, we will stay here. If you want to sing in London, we will go to London. If you want to cross the Atlantic and pan for gold in the California rivers, why, I'll go there too!"

Christine laughed as Raoul took her hands again, but she soon grew serious.

"Do they really want to meet me? The chorus girl who stole away their brother? The reason we're all in this mess to begin with? They must think me awfully forward if you've requested your mother's jewels–"

"They sent the necklace on their own," Raoul interjected gently, and Christine went still. "They are both … somewhat romantic. I know Philippe didn't approve of us, but they sent the necklace with their love, and they want you to know that they are ready to welcome you into the family."

It was more than Christine had hoped for. More than she'd expected. She would need time to sort out her next steps, but for now, in this moment, there was joy, and the hope that maybe she and Raoul would no longer have to be alone.

"It sounds like we have a lot to discuss," she said with a smile as she pulled a sprig of mistletoe from her pocket and held it above their heads. "For now, let's–"

But Raoul was already kissing Christine.

o….oOo...o

And so, we shut the first window.

o….oOo...o

The Opera Ghost really existed, and all that. He existed, he terrorized the opera house, and not even the ghosts of past, present, or future could stop him from kidnapping Swedish soprano Christine Daae. It was all very dramatic, torture chambers and glass forests and little figurines with big consequences. In a turn that no one expected, least of all the Ghost himself, Christine had chosen to be the Opera Ghost's bride, his wife. Erik's living wife.

That had been long ago, nearly a year had passed. He'd returned her boy to her, but she said she would stay. The boy had gone off to the navy, and Erik had married Christine. It was all quite a bit more than he could process, and on occasion his mind told him he was only dreaming, but a soft touch and a soothing word from his wife went a lot farther these days than at the beginning. Christine still sometimes got a distant look in her eye, as if she were thinking of someone far away, but Erik tried not to let it bother him.

"It's not much," Christine said as she held out a package to Erik, "but I thought you might like it."

Outside the windows of the house by the lake, the world was dark. Black. Faint strains of music could be heard in spots, filtering from the Opera house above, and the air was perpetually cool and somewhat damp, but inside was all warmth and light, Erik had never decorated for Christmas before, but he spared no expense to see Christine smile. Holly and evergreen lined the mantles, a fire crackled in the hearth, and the candles burned merrily on the boughs of the Christmas tree.

Erik smiled at his wife, done up in a dress of dark red with the candlelight in her golden hair, and took the gift from her. The paper fell away in a trice, and he admired the worn violin in his hand.

"Christine…" He trailed off as he ran his fingers over the instrument, acquainting himself with it.

"It's my father's violin, I thought you might appreciate it."

Erik took up the bow and touched it to the strings but paused without playing a note.

"Christine, are you sure? I know how much it means to you."

"It means a great deal, but it's yours. He would have wanted it that way." Christine flashed him a teasing grin, something he was only just becoming familiar with. "And since we'll be sharing the same quarters for the foreseeable future, perhaps you might play it for me sometime?"

"Minx. Indeed, I shall." He played a few notes before setting the violin aside and pulling a small flat box from behind his back. "This is for you."

Christine took the box and opened it in a riot of fluttering paper. She gasped softly as she opened the box and ran her fingers over a small, round medallion of colorful cut glass and gold edges. It hung from a fine chain and could fit in the palm of her hand.

"Erik, it's beautiful," she said, as she admired it. "Wherever did you get it?"

"It is nothing. Merely a trifle I picked up in Persia before– well, anyway the gift isn't the object so much as what it represents."

She turned her large, blue eyes towards him in question.

"You have been...a very good wife," He moved as if to reach for her hands but smoothed the legs of his pants instead with short, brisk strokes." I, however, have not been a good husband."

Christine said nothing, but he could see evidence of a struggle on her face. His good, kind Christine. She wanted to comfort him, but she could not disagree.

"I feel a moment of clarity, Christine, and I know that I am not always clear. I have not loved much in this life, but I have loved you. You have taught me – are teaching me – the difference between loving and coveting, loving and possessing, and I know too often I forget the difference."

He moved again to take her hand, but stopped short, resting his fingers almost close enough to feel the heat of hers.

"You are teaching me to...to trust, and that is something that does not come easy–" his words faltered as Christine took his hand.

"This medallion is for the bad moments, Christine. The moments I am not clear, when I forget to trust you. The moments I let the fear of...of losing you, the fear and anger of the past, the feeling that this is too good to last, blind me. In those moments, put the medallion into my hands. It will remind me"

"Remind you?" Christine said.

"Remind me of the truth. Remind me that you are real. Remind me of the good moments and help me come back to clarity."

Christine took a long look at the medallion before slipping the chain over her head and tucking it into her bodice. She took Erik's other hand. A shudder ran through him.

"We have much still to learn. About our marriage, about each other. We both still need to heal." She fixed her eyes on his. "But I am here with you."

She kissed one of his hands.

"I have chosen you."

She kissed the other. Erik froze in his seat, afraid to move, afraid to startle her. She had not kissed him since the night she agreed to be his bride, the chaste kiss on his forehead that had been his undoing. His remaking.

"Even with the...bad moments...I trust you more every day. We will learn in time to love each other in a way that is good, Erik. A way that is right."

This, this Christmas day, this sitting here with her, was more than Erik had hoped for. More than he'd expected. Both knew they would need time to sort out who they were to each other, to see what a love that started so inauspiciously could grow into, but for now, in this moment, there was joy, and the hope that maybe Christine and Erik could walk this path together.

"We still have a long way to go, but I have one more gift for you," she said with a smile. She released one of his hands and pulled a sprig of mistletoe from her pocket, lifting it above her head with a small, nervous laugh. "I'm ready now, at least, for this–"

And Erik was finally kissing Christine.

o...oOo...o

And so, we shut the second window.

o...oOo...o

Two windows, two paths, two separate what ifs. The endings of the wrong beginnings might work here as well, so I will say that though through one window L'Époque ran the message "ERIK IS DEAD," in both windows it was Christmas. So merry Christmas, and God bless Us, Every One!

* * *

PotO Secret Santa 2019 gift for Mypdo on tumblr.


End file.
